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5.23.2012

Riding the A train downtown,
I think, not much more of this. Today I will pull the money from the bank,
today I will sign a lease, and in ten days I will move to Brooklyn. No more
frustration at looking up in hopes of seeing the 125th street station, only to be greeted by the yellow
stripes of 145th. No more inching past 135th. No more
gypsy cab drivers who stand at the mouth of subway offering rides and sidelong
glances that distill my womanhood to nothing more than curves and cutouts. No
more nine-flight escalators stuck behind the person too lazy or too tired or
too indignant to walk down. No more of the slow and silent panic that waiting
for the A train in the bunker that is 181 elicits.

And no more of the crowded elevator
up to the street when riding the 1 train late at night. No more listening as
men speak in a langue they wrongly assume I cannot understand.

I have lived in Manhattan for
eight years now. It is a number that both alarms and amazes. Eight years.

In ten days this will change.
In ten days I will fill a truck with only the furniture that will fit into a
small studio apartment and I will hurtle south. To Brooklyn. The southerner in
me appreciates this. Victory by degrees.

It is a quiet place—quieter,
at least, abundant in trees and coffee shops, and I am undoubtedly,
indubitably, indefatigably in love.

With the beer garden across
the street and the Catholic church around the corner and the small restaurant
that upon entering my father declared like
a small pub in London.

I’ve spent eight years in New
York searching for a home. Not just searching for the place, but the meaning of
the thing. The meaning of the thing at this in between phase in my life when
home is not the people that I’m with—no parents, no husband, no children—because
it’s just me. For the time being, it’s just me. And home is…

Undefined. Or unanswerable.
Or undiscovered. As of yet.

I don’t know if Brooklyn will
feel like home any more than any place before it: 66th Street, 104th,
80th, Washington Heights. But the word of the place—the word of the
little pocket I’ve fallen in love with—the word of the neighborhood I’ll soon
call my own—I’m pretty sure it’s my word.

28 comments:

Congrats Meg! Having been born-and-raised in Brooklyn, I want to welcome you "home." I love Manhattan, but Brooklyn's my heart. The cobblestone streets, abundance of trees, small coffee shops, locally owned stores, ethnic flavor. The list goes on, and you'll love every bit of it!

oooh meg, congrats!! there is nothing better than living on your own. and by "own" i mean without roommates. the solitude is so peaceful and you do discover more things about yourself. the pics you posted seem divine! and if that is your periwinkle-colored door, you cannot go wrong!

As a recent Brooklyn resident (from the streets of Washington Heights in fact!) I can say that Brooklyn is wonderful! No more leaving your neighborhood all the time for brunch! Or hanging out with friends! Or movies! Or any of it. It's all in Brooklyn, all the time. Welcome to The Best Borough.

Congratulations for your new "life"!I'm from Spain and I love seeing your pictures of how it is your city.I would love to someday get to know your country, in the meantime I will continue enjoying seeing your wonderful photos!Kisses from SpainEsmeralda

i went to NYC for the first time last week and stayed in manhattan...after a couple days of excited frenzy, i wandered across the bridge to brooklyn...and then i think i BREATHED for the first time in days! it was definitely more the speed and spaciousness of this western girl.

Oh, my gosh, my stomach just flip-flopped when I read this. I was in Brooklyn a few weekends ago - I have a cousin who lives in Cobble Hill, and we also explored Red Hook. I love Chicago - LOVE it. But I have to admit that I'm a little bit jealous of you right now. :)